Midday: the lights are on everywhere.The frost took its time to clear But now there is rain, horizontal,Driven by the howling windsAgainst my window, then against my faceAs I race for the shelter of the carWith children who’d hoped forA visit to the park this afternoon.Not now my dears,Perhaps later if the day improvesWe’ll manage a trip to the swingsIn your welly boots and coats.Mind you, look out of that windowAnd you’ll see the dark clouds building –That’s thunder and lightning coming for sure...They call this summer?

Special snowflakes curl Flying past the houses Over the tallest buildings Pushing down Against cold air Invisible arms flapping Slow, steady Eyes closed Breathing rhythmically Till the sun Pushes through the shade Opening our eyes And we fall Into consciousness

E.E.Cummings: who are you little i five or six years old peering from some high window at the gold of a november sunset and feeling if day must become night this is a beautiful way

Marlene's new version:

little brother you are only two or three peeing from your upstairs window enjoying the golden spray you created at the end of the day feeling the child’s freedom glowing without a care in the world no shame of what neighbors may say this is a beautiful way

Poetry

This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though. Just submit them using the submissions Storybox.